His face goes blank, but I don’t wait for him to answer. I’m afraid that he’s going to say something I don’t want to hear, and I’m not going to give him the chance. Instead, I lean forward and plant my mouth on his.
For half a second, his mouth is still under mine. But like a switch someone flips on, he reaches up, buries his hands in my hair, and kisses me back. His response is so sudden, so unexpected, that I lose my footing, and next thing I know, I’m sitting on his lap, letting him put his tongue in my mouth.
I pull away with a sigh, and for a second, Jackson’s eyes meet mine, deep and intense, and I know I’ve reminded him of how good we can be together.
But still, when he finally speaks, he says, “Dammit, Amy.” He pushes me off him gently, until I’m standing in front of his throne, feeling suddenly naked in this room of prying eyes.
A few people have already noticed that something is going on, but for the most part, everyone is too busy partying. I feel my face flush when I turn back to Jackson and see him wipe his mouth, like he just did something shameful.
“I’m sorry. I just … it’s your birthday. I just wanted to—”
“I told you not to come,” Jackson says, looking everywhere but in my direction. “I told you I need space.”
I feel tears threaten, but I bite them back. “I don’t want to be on a break. I just want to be with you.”
He sighs, his jaw going hard, and when I glance around, I realize more people are looking. “Ames, you should go home.”
“Could we maybe go somewhere and talk?” I’m ashamed at the way it sounds like I’m pleading with him.
And I’m even more ashamed when his eyes settle on me, hard, and he says, “No, Amy. This is my party, and you’re not supposed to be here.”
I have to look away from him when his voice rises. Jackson doesn’t get mad easily, doesn’t argue unless he feels like he has to. But he’s mad now, and I regret everything. I had this perfect image in my head of how this night would go: I would kiss Jackson, and he would whisk me off to someplace private where we would remind each other how in love we are until the party was completely forgotten about.
No, this is definitely not how I imagined it.
The room has gone quiet now, and I don’t notice until it’s too late, until everyone is listening, watching us like we’re a TV show, their eyes springing back and forth between us. Only now, they’re all on me as I struggle to choke back tears. I will not cry in front of all these people.
“You’re really breaking up with me, aren’t you?”
His jaw moves as he looks down at the floor and then up at me from under his eyelashes. “Yeah. I am. I’m sorry, Amy.”
Something inside me cracks, and I am ashamed and embarrassed that so many people are witnessing my utter destruction.
I’m trying to regain the feeling in my legs to walk out of here, away from Jackson, but then I feel something tug at the pocket of my jeans, and I turn to find Bryce with my car keys dangling from his fingers. He tosses the keys to one of his friends, another guy on the basketball team, and then the keys are being tossed from person to person, eventually out of sight. I sigh and turn back to Bryce.
“Come on,” I tell him. “Get my keys back.”
He just shakes his head and crosses his arms, and I can hear the start of laughter moving through the room. I glance around, hoping I can catch a glimpse of whoever has them. I look at Bryce, ready to make another plea, but he’s taken a step toward me, his voice low when he speaks. “I said no drama. You should figure out a ride home.” He turns away, disappearing into the throng of people that’s gathered around us now.
“Bryce!” I shout. My whole body is shaking. He has to be kidding. He isn’t going to make me walk home. It’s freezing outside, literally, and my house is miles from here. “You can’t just take my keys.”
Bryce spins around and leans against the doorjamb beside him. “Yes, I can. You’re on my property. Shouldn’t have come around, Amy.” And then he’s gone, and so are my keys. That’s not even my car. It’s my parents’ car, and they’re going to kill me when I tell them about this.
My first reaction is to turn back to Jackson. I wait for him to tell his best friend to give me my keys back. I wait for him to offer me a ride. I wait for him to do something.
He stands there, looking at me. “Bryce,” he says, his eyes flickering over to where Bryce has disappeared in the crowd, but his voice is so quiet, his plea so pathetic, that he might as well have not spoken at all.
I turn and rush through the crowd, pushing against anyone that gets in my way until I can throw open the front door. I rush down the steps, but on the last one, I slip. Ice coats everything now, and I scrape across it, landing in a heap on the snowy front lawn.
OLIVER
“READ ’EM AND weep, fellas,” I say, laying the cards in my hand down flat on the table between me, Brooke, and Marshal.
Marshal rolls his eyes. “Dear Lord, what cliché poker film did you just walk out of?”
Brooke snickers, but I just ignore them. They can laugh all they want, but I just won an old Cat Stevens record off Marshal and a Rolling Stones vinyl off Brooke. Overall, a good night.
“You have the best poker face of anyone I’ve ever met,” Marshal says.
Brooke scoffs. “You have no idea, man. Oliver could convince the Pope that God wasn’t real. Straight fucking face the whole time. Best bluffer I’ve ever met.”
I scowl at her. “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”
She shrugs. “Sure. Why not?”
“I’m great at bullshitting? That’s a compliment?”
She shrugs at me again, and I don’t miss the glance she shares with Marshal.
I roll my eyes and put my albums down. “Whose deal is it?”
“Yours.” Brooke tosses the deck at me, and I groan when the cards scatter.
“Why do you have to be such a pain in the ass?”
She bites her lip and scoots closer to me. “Oh, Oli. Just admit that you love me. Why else would you have stuck around as long as you have?”
It’s true that I love Brooke, the way you would love any boss that you’ve worked with for three years, the way you love the person who has somehow become your best friend while you weren’t paying attention. And of course, the way you love someone who is almost ten years older than you, not romantically interested in someone of your gender, and also a giant pain in the ass.
I don’t have a great hand. Two pair.
Marshal shifts and then curses when his elbow smacks into a shelf of CDs, causing them all to clatter to the floor. “Why can’t we set up the poker table out there?” he asks, pointing a finger over his shoulder to the open door of the stockroom, out to where the shop lies empty and quiet.
Brooke scoffs. “And let a passing customer see that we’re gambling inside our business?”
I snort. “We’re playing for vinyl. Not exactly high-stakes poker.”
Brooke scans the cards in her hand. “Whatever. When you’re in charge of managing your wife’s business, you can decide where and when you want to have your poker games. I’m not taking any risks here.”